Man Man are full of contradictions: They make great studio records that can't compare to the intensity of their physically demanding live show. Oh, but you really gotta pay attention to the lyrics. And their best songs are the slow ones. Their facepaint, percussion, and piano-pounding portray them as wild men, but Honus Honus' junkyard-dog howl is the projection of an old soul. This duality is more pronounced than ever on their fourth LP, Life Fantastic. On one end, it's by far their most tasteful and well-produced record to date. But it contains the darkest, most frightening lyrics Honus has written-- which is really saying something.
It makes sense that the band brought in Saddle Creek house producer Mike Mogis, not just for his mastery of reining in orchestral bric-a-brac but also for his experience with the most caustic emotional bloodletting. But not even early Bright Eyes can hold a candle to the absolutely scorching self-immolation of Life Fantastic. Leadoff "Knuckle Down" casts Honus as an all-too-willing supplicant in an emotionally and sexually draining relationship. But at least someone's getting their rocks off there-- more typical is the atomic "Dark Arts", which details an accident Honus suffered before the Life Fantastic sessions.
The autobiographical details are a bit stifling at times, but Honus' other lyrical subjects are no better off: Within the subtly hooky vocals of the title track, children find a corpse at a picnic and are informed by their parents that "the world is dying." If there's a better marimba-led tango about a killer who turns his victims into household items ("The fireman is an ashtray/ The DJ spins as fan blades"), I haven't heard it. And in the tradition of OutKast's "Toilet Tisha", don't let a silly title ("Spooky Jookie") distract you from a harrowing and grotesque account of a life slipping away to drugs ("She broke her teeth/ On an unsheathed piece of hard-tasting candy").
While Honus continues to prove himself one of rock's best working lyricists, Life Fantastic contains as many musically compelling moments as Rabbit Habits and Six Demon Bag. They've dialed down the wacky factor-- not as many cartoon voices, no kazoos-- though it's not a simple matter of having a "real producer" for the first time. Clearly, Mogis cleans them up nicely, importing lovely string sections for the title track and "Oh, La Brea". But for every song such as "Knuckle Down" that packs a sturdy, forceful melody, others struggle to fit the contours of Honus' syntax. Pay too much attention to the words and the songs can bleed into each other, or recall older Man Man material.
That's not a sin, considering Man Man have created a niche that's wholly theirs. It's natural for them to embrace this established identiy, most clearly expressed on closer "Oh, La Brea". Settling in Los Angeles after a few itinerant years, Honus finds himself disenfranchised by the west side ("Sepulveda and Pico, what the hell do they know about me?") as well as the artsier east side. He finds comfort in the thoroughfare sharing its name with a tar pit-- fitting for a pitch-black record that reveals as many skeletons as you're willing to dig for.
